


Don't let your enemies know that they have won

by Cuits



Category: Sanditon (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 11:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21445213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuits/pseuds/Cuits
Summary: You and I should not be enemies, Miss Denham.How can we be otherwise when we are competing for the same thing?Esther have money and Edward is gone. They are no longer competing for the same things, there are no longer reasons for them to be enemies.
Relationships: Clara Brereton & Esther Denham
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Don't let your enemies know that they have won

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lirazel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirazel/gifts).

** _“Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?”_ **

**  
― Abraham Lincoln**

If she were to be sincere, and contrary to popular belief Esther tries to be in as many instances as possible, she never expected to get married. Not really. For the longest time, she imagined that her best chance at happiness was contingent upon inheriting her aunt’s money and running away with Edward. Far away. To a place where nobody would ever know who they were or what they were to each other. They wouldn’t be able to marry, of course, but that was a small price to pay to be together.

It seems all so silly now, more and more so with the passing of the days, that it never occurred to her to look past him, past his needs, his deceptions and manipulations. It’s been a couple of months since she married, and she has almost ceased to expect the other shoe to drop at a moment’s notice. She never expected to feel this freedom within herself, the liberation of being true to herself without the constant fear of society’s contempt and censure.

It is exhilarating and empowering. She feels almost like she could hold the whole world in her hands if she wanted to.

Edward used to fill every minute of her day, and now, if he intrudes in her thoughts at all, it’s only to lament the energy and time that her past-self spent in such a little, sad and unworthy individual. 

The money and friendship that Babington offered her have been the salvation of her very soul, but she is a little restless, a little uncomfortable with her good luck. What has been offered to her has not been offered to others, and now that the veil of jealousy, fear and pain has been lifted, she thinks of Clara, contemplates the way she was excessively punished for the crimes that Edward and other men made her commit. She doesn’t want on her conscience the downfall of a fellow victim of the abuses of ill men.

“I want to search for Clara Brereton,” she announces to her husband, as casually as she is able to fake. “Maybe arrange for her to come here for a while.” She concentrates on the details of the vase she is painting on the canvas but lifts her gaze when she hears the rumbling of the newspaper Babbington was reading.

“I thought you didn’t care for her,” he says confused and a little excited. He likes her apparent contradictions and basks on her mysterious ways. 

“I do not care for her.”

“I thought you hated her,” her husband insists.

“I also hated you, once upon a time.” She lifts an eyebrow in challenge and her husband laughs full of affection.

“I’ll make the appropriate inquiries and if what I hear back is not too callous, I‘ll proceed with the arrangements for her visit.”

It sounds reasonable, more than kind to anyone’s ears but Esther’s. When she knows what she wants, she doesn’t appreciate argumentations.

“Callous?” Her voice sounds just a little bit annoyed. “I didn’t think you were so daunted by rumours of a ruined reputation.”

Her husband gets up from the sofa and comes behind her, puts his hands softly over her shoulders until she feels the pressure of a soft kiss against her hair at the top of her head.

“I have never been accused of being a self-righteous man and I have no intention of becoming a hypocrite. A battered reputation doesn’t daunt me, but lice certainly do.”

If it is possible for a curtsy to be arrogant and defiant at the same time, Esther is pretty sure it is what Clara has just accomplished. Her clothes are but glorified rags, her skin is tanned and her hair, if clean and moderately styled, seems brittle and unkempt. She looks older too, as if she had aged five years in just as many months.

“Lady Babbington,” she says, but it sounds more like a mock than the deference it should be. “Money suits you well, as we always suspected.”

“Miss Brereton,” she salutes back. “You look healthy enough. And lice-free I’m sure, for my husband would have forbidden you entrance otherwise.”

She smiles although there is nothing kind in her mouth. Her lips are like razors ready to cut if provoked in the slightest. Clara turns around the room, touches the furniture that is within her reach, letting her fingers linger on the surfaces as she walks slowly in an ample circle around Esther.

It’s a play aimed at irking her and Esther knows it so she doesn’t give her the satisfaction of showing her irritation. She doesn’t change her stance at all until she is back at the beginning of the circle, right in front of her.

“Well, I must admit your request for a visit has certainly been a surprise. I’m just curious about how long will it take for you to reveal your true reasons behind it.” Clara looks around the ceilings and walls, as if admiring the general splendour of the room, rocks softly on her heels with her hands primly crossed in front of her. “Oh, but don’t fret on my account I will make the most of my present circumstances until then.”

Esther smiles squaring her jaw. She recognizes now the arrogance that covers a deeper pain that nobody sees and so she is prone to make certain concessions but she doesn’t appreciate Clara’s attitude at all.

“And what do you think are those true reasons, if I dare ask.”

“Oh, you either plan to entertain your new friends with a flesh-and-bones cautionary tale, or to acquire yourself with a charity case to be praised for.”

Esther takes a calm step, then another, and another one, until she is almost in the other woman’s face. They are both smiling sweetly and fake. The only thing preventing them from starting a physical fight is the knowledge that they wouldn’t be able to stop themselves until one or the both of them ended up unconscious on the marble floor, which would be inconvenient and counterproductive.

“I have no need for praise or for such poor entertainment.”

“Then I guess you might need someone else to warm the bed of your husband for you. It wouldn’t even be the first time that I grant you that kind of service.”

Clara’s words are pure venom, born to hurt and fester and kill, and Esther’s hand itches to slap her cheek.

"It seems like you are always a little too ready to issue that offer.”

“I offer my skills and charms in as many ways as would allow me a roof and a meal.” She throws her chin up in the air, proud of something that should be cause for shame. “Society might not think much of me, but take care, I am a survivor,” she says it like a dangerous beast making an exhibition of its fangs and claws. 

Esther knows because she has fangs and claws of her own. "Don’t forget that so am I."

Clara gets installed in a room near the servant’s quarters. It’s not grandiose or splendorous but it is big enough, private and comfortably furnished. It is also far away from the master’s and the mistress’s rooms which seems to suit everybody just fine.

She rarely sees Lord Babington aside from formal meals where they are entertaining friends or neighbours. Clara is always in her best behaviour then, sweet and demure, not a clue about the crimes she has seen or the sins she has done could be detected by the way she conducts herself.

She mostly keeps to herself, out of the way of any circumstances that could throw her away from the house and back to London, back to being poor and unconnected. She walks the park around the house and enjoys the privilege of having a room for herself and her time at her own disposal. She makes extensive use of the music room too. Sometimes, while she is playing the piano Esther comes into the room, to read or paint, not looking for her companionship exactly but neither bothered by it.

Civility is for other kind of people. Less acquainted with each other than they are, maybe, less battered by each other’s mistakes.

She is playing Scarlatti sonata 247 when Esther enters the room with a paper in her hands and sits on the settee without giving her a single look. She walks with the cadence expected of her position, the expensive cloth of her green dress tale-telling her movements as Cara tries not to feel self-conscious about her wanting attire. Esther doesn’t utter a word either. She is not rude, has no intention to offend, Clara has learnt she is just very matter-of-factly and has little interest in banal pleasantries when they are not needed.

It is most refreshing.

Necessity has often made her the slave of others, living off charity and adapting her ways and manners to the taste of her given benefactors. She doesn’t feel ignored or excluded, quite on the contrary, she feels cautiously thankful.

Esther hasn’t demanded anything of her as of yet.

“I have received a letter from our dear, loving Aunt.”

There is a particular disdain in Esther’s tone but that doesn’t stop Clara’s blood from running cold in her veins. She regains her composure, the muscle memory of her fingers doesn’t let her skip a note, but there is no love lost between herself and their aunt, and she already forsook her once, left her alone in the street without means to support herself. “Oh really?” she feigns as much indifference as she can fake. 

“Yes.” She seems bored already with the conversation, with her fine dresses, and her grand house and her future secured. “Lady Denham is most displeased and demands that you are dismissed from this house immediately, or else I am not to inherit any of her fortune.”

Clara stops playing, the breath stuck in her lungs. The humidity and cold of London, the filth of its streets and the sneers of people come to her all at once. She gets up slowly, dignified, her head high as she starts walking toward the door. She made it out of that misery once and she will do it again.

“Where are you going?” She turns to look at Esther. She is looking back at her for the first time since she came into the room, blankly. Clara imagines that she might be annoyed at her for cutting short the entertainment at the expense of her downfall.

“To pack my things.”

Esther snorts, dismisses her with a vague gesture of her hand.

“You are to do so if you want, of course, but I have no intention of becoming our aunt; old, alone, resented and only cared for the money I might leave after my death. I am in no need of her money anymore.”

Clara exhales relieved. She makes fists of her hands and takes two steps towards the other woman, feeling how she loses her temper with every passing beating of her heart.

“Are you amused? Is this why I am here? To keep me on edge about my circumstances, to be at your mercy, at your beck and call? To punish me when you see fit?”

Esther gets up and closes the distance between them, the studied composure gone in favour of something far more violent. “Punish you? Does this seem like a punishment to you?” She asks moving her arms around. The hard edge of her voice tells her that she is more than annoyed, about to lose her temper too. “We both have been used very ill, and when I revised my past circumstances I realized that the world owed us both a debt. I am now in a situation that allows me to repay yours.”

Clara takes a moment to breathe in, to study the glim in Esther’s eyes. She has always thought that they could have been great friends if they hadn’t have been destined to contend for the same prizes, and now that those prizes are no longer such thing, she wonders what they should do with all that has been said and done, with all that had transfixed between them.

“The debt that the world owes me could hardly be repaid so easily.”

Esther raises a perfect eyebrow, turns around and goes back to the settee, the fullness of the dress adding to the dramatic effect.

“As I said before, you are free to either stay or go. It is your choice.”

Clara learned early in life that freedom was a luxury reserved for the rich, and that only those that are free can afford to be proud. She has done far more unpleasant things than what she is about to do resulting in accomplishing far less.

She goes back to the piano, calmly sits on the stand and starts to play again as if the last ten minutes had never happened.

“I’d rather you didn’t play the Italians.”

Clara keeps hitting the key proficiently, following the sheet of Scarlatti’s sonata.

They fall into an easy kind of routine. Clara enjoys the chance to be on her own as she pleases. Growing up with siblings in a small house in London, privacy was never a commodity at her reach. Later on, as her aunt’s companion, privacy was only an image as she was expected to do, and talk, and act in a certain way. She is never resented for choosing to be alone, for choosing not to be Esther’s companion on a shopping spree or for tea at a neighbour’s, neither is she frowned upon if she decides to tag along.

They become friends of sorts, Esther and her. They are both hard, sharp and cutting beneath their soft exterior, unforgivable under the eyes of society. They are not what they are supposed to be. Bitter, resentful and unkind to each other without fear of censure and reproach. They don’t lie to each other, don’t bother with shallow manners or insipid pleasantries that grant comfort to no one.

They are wiser, maybe. They are certainly less naive.

Some days, not often, Clara’s mind fills with the memories of nightmares and she can’t stand to inhabit her own skin. Everything is suffocating and taxing to an extent that makes breathing a painful exercise. Those days Esther orders the servants to let her be, keep her room warm and dark, tea and a cold bite ready for her at all times.

They never speak of Edward, funny, given that Edward was once almost all that they talked about. Clara never mentions his uncle’s abuses again, but in those days, Esther goes to her room and brushes her hair with careful, stoic movements.

“Monsters should be scared of us, not the other way around,” she tells her.

“I am not scared.” She is not, but her voice is a little weak, her skin too pale. She is just too tired of being chased by the past. It seems like now that her survival is not at risk, now that she has no need to plot and scheme in order to thrive, her idle mind gets stuck on past offences.

Clara looks at their combined reflections in the mirror of her dresser. They are both in her night attire. The image is so intimate as Esther brushes and braids her hair that anyone could mistake them for sisters, yet they are not. Lady Babington has a grand house to manage, social obligations and a child on the way, her abdomen swelled and round. 

Clara has nothing of the sorts.

"I think I just need a purpose," she declares.

"Very well," she says as if giving her intent could be an easy task.

Clara doesn’t protest. She is too exhausted of her own thoughts and the way Esther fingers caress her scalp soothe the melancholy in her soul. 

Clara gets moved to a room closer to the family ones the week after, and when the time comes for Esther to begin her confinement, she is the one supposed to be in charge of everything the Lady might need. 

It gives her mind an occupation and she is thankful for that, but it is a temporal one. Her future keeps presenting itself grey, idle and too tedious to bear.

Little Ida is born rosy and perfect on a cold night in November after long hours of labour. Sweaty and exhausted, Esther looks happier than ever, not bothered in the least by the fact that her firstborn is a girl. Clara changes the wet, cool cloth that refreshes her flustered face as the servants change blood-stained sheets and bring warm towels. The midwife goes to present baby Ida to her father and Clara feels so filled with undetermined, overpowering emotions to be a part of it all, that she leans on and kisses Esther on the forehead.

When she leans back Esther's eyes are closed but she is smiling beatifically, wet, red curls framing her delicate features.

Esther takes her hand in hers. "She is to be your charge," she says opening her eyes." I will be her mother but you will be her guard."

She is momentarily taken aback by the enormity of the delicate duty put in her hands.

"Me? I don't know modern languages, and I paint dreadfully. My manners are surely not fashionable enough for a Babington child."

Esther rolls her eyes, strengths the hold of her hand. "She will have tutors for that. I don't want her to grow up spoiled and ignorant of the world, an easy prey for rotten men with a golden tongue. I want her confident and resourceful, and I know that if you love her, you'll crawl your way out of hell for her."

Clara takes a deep breath, tries to control the tears welling up in her eyes.

"What does Lord Babington has to say about this?"

"Lord Babington knows better than to contradict me when I am right."

Clara nods once and lets an impractical tear roll down her cheek with freedom. Esther laughs, radiant, brings their united hands to her lips to kiss the back of Clara's hand.

That night Clara cries herself to sleep, unchased by nightmares, finally out of the reach of past abuses or sins, free for the first time of the yoke of her neglecting family. 

She has purpose, she has a future.

When she rocks little Ida to sleep in the silence of the child's room, she is happier than she ever thought she could be. She feels permanent, as if her feet were rooting on the Earth deeper than a well, she feels like the air getting into her lungs finally belongs to her.

“I’m gonna teach you how to sharpen your tiny claws with the sweetest smile.”

Old friends come to the house to meet the baby and new neighbours find excuses to make their acquaintance with the family. Clara is never far away from the girl, protecting her with fierceness hidden behind a placid smile as Lord and Lady Babington act the part that is required of them as hosts.

Esther conceals her content at the follies she has to endure, the shallow arrogance and petty gossip of their neighbours sour her delicate features. Clara sees de snares uttered at her, at her fine dresses, and the deference the servants show her. Fashionable people always seem preoccupied with the position she holds, always pointing at all the ways she doesn’t belong. She is not new to this game though, and she learned to play it well some time ago, so she makes herself scarce and tries to blend in the corners, making her seem naive and weak, as they want her to be.

“Are you very attached to the governess, Lady Babington? I could certainly make you some recommendations. I have connections in court, you know.”

The entire room gets covered by a thick blanket of uncomfortable silence. Clara gets up from her little corner as she sees Esther flare up by the impertinence.

“Clara is my wife’s family,” Lord Babington says, with a calming hand on Esther’s arm. “And she belongs in this house.”

Lord Babington looks at her with a little nod. For the first time since Clara can remember, she lets the shell she wears in society crumble and fall, smiling wide and truthfully, with all her sharp teeth.


End file.
